by Alex Cugia
“Absolutely clear.” she said, taking the piece of paper and folding it back into her pad. “Thank you. This is really helpful. It’s kind of difficult to ask Roehrberg these basic questions. He’s always so busy and ... ”
“I know,” Spitze interrupted. “When I first joined the operation two years ago I felt completely out of place. It was my first time in a regional office and I had little experience of this kind of job. Roehrberg was always too busy to talk to. I even had the feeling initially that he and Henkel were intentionally avoiding telling me about things, I felt so confused about the structure. But then I came to realise that it was really only that he was too busy. Now he’s the one complaining, saying he’s not told enough!”
He stroked his moustache and as he smiled Bettina could see his tar stained teeth, his habits confirmed by the stale air in the office and the ashtray filled with cigarette butts. “Effectively, I now run most of the office directly. Roehrberg is great for this − he delegates a lot if he trusts you.”
“Had he been working long with Henkel before you joined?”
“I think the two had been together about five years before I joined, so altogether now seven years.”
“What was Henkel like?” Bettina asked. “Were you surprised to learn that he gambled and had high debts?”
“I was extremely surprised and saddened to hear what happened. No, I can’t say I had any clue at all. I don’t think Roehrberg did either. He trusted Henkel completely. They were friends as well as colleagues.”
“Did they socialise outside work?”
“We all do, from time to time. It’s important to keep united. I do it less than others since I have a family, you see, but Roehrberg and Henkel are both single. They could go out together more frequently and quite often did, I believe.”
“Could you show me an example of how the internal procedure for authorisation of bank withdrawals worked? Roehrberg told me Henkel and he could authorise others to execute transactions from the bank.”
“I could too, technically speaking,” Spitze said. “But typically it was always Henkel who did it. He needed to be on top of the finance side more than anyone else.” He pulled out a piece of paper from a file behind his desk. “This is an example.” It was a note by Henkel, signed at the foot and with some handwritten notes at the head.
“May I have a copy, as a sample?” Bettina asked. “It’s one of the things they asked me to verify at head office. I need to show I’ve covered every detail, you understand … ”
“Of course The bureaucrats in Berlin! All they care about is that the formal procedures are respected. It's important that the formal procedures are followed, in my view.”
Bettina checked her pad to give her time to decide how to frame her final question, the one which had been burning in her mind all along. She looked directly at Spitze as she asked “Who might have had an interest in killing Henkel?”
Spitze’s expression didn’t change. He pursed his lips, stared at the ceiling, then shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone. No one at all. He didn’t seem worried. Lots of people are currently worried, especially the older agents, who risk losing their jobs if unification goes ahead. I am too to some extent I suppose. But not Gerd. He was generally in a good mood and almost gave the impression he was looking forward to the changes. Like he was a man with a plan, so to speak.”
"But you accept the idea of murder rather than suicide as a possibility? That doesn't surprise you?"
"Oh, I'm certain he killed himself. Just as the note said. Quite certain." He blinked at her.
“What about Roehrberg? Has he seemed to you at all worried?”
He looked startled. "Oh, I see what you mean. No, he doesn’t seem at all worried either. But it’s practically impossible to work out what he’s thinking. Whereas he has the uncanny capability of reading others’ thoughts. It’s quite extraordinary.”
Bettina remembered her coming dinner with Roehrberg, realising she'd have to be particularly careful. And Thomas would be breaking in to Roehrberg’s house while they were eating. She would just have to block him out of her mind, she thought.
Chapter 29
Tuesday January 16 1990, evening
BY six-thirty Thomas was in the kneipe Bettina had chosen, sitting at a table with his back to the wall so that he could face the door but also take in the whole room. Bettina was already fifteen minutes late and so, feeling conspicuous without a drink, he ordered a beer. Another ten minutes went by and then she was suddenly in the doorway, looking around. He raised his hand to wave but sensed from her expression that something wasn’t right and ran his fingers through his hair instead. She ignored him completely and sat down a couple of tables away, apparently alone and just minding her own business. Bettina’s description of the white car which had followed her flashed into his mind. Thomas sipped his beer and looked around. No one could enter or leave without his seeing.
Two or three minutes later a stocky man of around forty came in, unzipping his leather jacket in the warmth of the room. He glanced round the room and then walked to the small section at right angles to the main run of the bar, just beside the entrance, sat on one of the high stools and leaned back on the end wall so that he could keep the entire room in view. He again glanced round the room at the customers, this time more slowly and with his gaze lingering for a moment on Bettina, then snapped his fingers and pointed at one of the beer taps. The barmaid, who had been watching him from the far end of the counter, reached up to the shelf and selected a specific stein. Cutting off the overflowing foam she carried over the mug and placed it on a mat in front of the man who ignored her and took a long draught. Carefully setting down his drink he again snapped his fingers and when the barmaid turned crooked his index finger imperiously to call her back and then said a few words in a low voice before dismissing her and turning again to survey the room.
“Hmmm.” thought Thomas “A regular, but not one who’s popular. And he knows what he’s doing sitting there, watching everyone.” He shivered slightly, drank his beer slowly and waited.
The barmaid took Bettina’s order at her table and then pointed to a door marked ‘Private’, just to the left of where Thomas sat. A moment later Bettina got up, passed by Thomas’s table without any hint of recognition, and went through the door. Thomas had been watching the man carefully, noting that although he was again talking with the barmaid he'd followed Bettina's movements closely. He noticed a bulge at the man’s waist under the patterned shirt he was wearing." Armed, and someone you clearly don't mess with." thought Thomas. "Roehrberg's?"
As if summoned the man suddenly turned his head and looked straight at Thomas. They locked eyes for a moment and Thomas found it impossible to look away. His heart rate increased and he felt an involuntary shiver at the base of his spine. He managed to look down, shifted in his seat and took a gulp of beer. His stomach clenched and he wondered how he was going to deal with protecting Bettina if anything erupted here. The man was still staring at him, unblinking.
There was a sound of flushing water from behind the door and a few moments later Bettina emerged, glancing towards the entrance as she did so. As she passed Thomas’s table she apparently caught her foot on some obstruction and steadied herself with a hand on his table, apologising mechanically and without emotion, before returning to her own seat and sipping her orange juice. She glanced at her watch before pulling out a newspaper from her bag and putting it on the table in front of her.
Hidden briefly from the man’s gaze as Bettina had moved to her own table Thomas picked up the scrap of paper she’d dropped on the table and hid it in his left hand. Thomas finished his beer and got up to pay, conscious as he walked to the counter that the man in the corner was again watching him. As he passed Bettina’s table he glanced frankly at her, acting the natural response a beautiful young woman might elicit in a passing male. Bettina ignored him.
As he left the kneipe Thomas was conscious of the man’s steady gaze. Outside he walked
a short distance before suddenly stopping, swinging round and walking back towards the kneipe, patting and feeling his pockets distractedly. There was no sign of the man and Thomas, evidently satisfied that he’d found what he’d thought he’d mislaid, turned and continued his earlier course. Presumably the man’s orders were to follow Bettina and if he didn't realise they were together that might be useful later, Thomas thought. He continued walking and in a few minutes ducked into a small alleyway and opened Bettina’s hurriedly scrawled message. “Being followed. Stocky, dark hair, grey leather jacket. No attempted contact. Having dinner with R at 8. You need to enter house to find docs. Get out by 9.30. B”
“Shit!” Thomas tore the message into tiny pieces and scattered them in a nearby bin. The thought of again breaking into someone’s house worried him. Last time there had been some tenuous form of justification he could offerfor breaking in to a senior Stasi official's house but there was nothing like that now. He risked being shot if someone caught him breaking in. He gave a wry smile and shrugged away the thought. Bettina and he were by now clearly risking their lives anyway. He wondered about the man following Bettina. If it was Roehrberg, or perhaps Spitze, who had sent him to check on her and what she was doing it was unlikely she'd be attacked, he decided. They needed her alive and out of their hair, able to return to Berlin and say the matter had been cleared up. And had Bettina had found out something about Roehrberg that proved he was involved, he wondered. Why else send him to check out the house?
Thomas returned to his bicycle and started back to the farm. He looked at his watch. By the time he'd got back home he'd have about 40 minutes before leaving for Roehrberg's house, he reckoned, just time to review the maps and the files and devise a plan. Cycling meant that he’d be less conspicuous but if something went wrong it would be harder to escape. Roehrberg, he remembered, was the smartest of the three and would almost certainly notice any small changes in the things in his house. What’s more, he had a reputation for being very fond of women and one of his reputedly many girlfriends might be in the house. Thomas realised he had to be extremely careful. This time he was on his own and things were far more dangerous. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. He sighed. Berlin and his student life seemed years away, as if that life had been lived by someone else.
Fuelled by the adrenalin pumping through his system, Thomas felt no strain in cycling up the long, steep hill which led to the farm. He let himself in, shouted a greeting to Frau Dornbusch and ran up the staircase and locked himself in the room. He turned the combination of the briefcase lock then opened it quickly and took out one of the files. He turned to the information on Roehrberg's house and began reading.
Some time later Thomas, now dressed in dark clothes, went downstairs and wheeled out the bicycle ready for the ride to Roehrberg’s villa, a street or so away from Henkel’s. The two were similar in structure although Roehrberg’s had an observation turret built into the roof which commanded an excellent view of the surrounding neighbourhood as well as across the city, thanks to the hill on which the villa stood. Roehrberg's wall seemed somewhat lower than Henkel's, he noticed. It was now approaching five to eight.
There were lights on in several rooms on both floors and Thomas regretted not arriving earlier to watch who came and went. Now he would have to wait to see whether Roehrberg was still at home or if anyone else was around. If Roehrberg had the habit of leaving lights on when away then Thomas would waste valuable time waiting unnecessarily and would probably also have to prowl riskily around the house to check that it really was empty.
“The files aren’t detailed enough.” Thomas thought as he passed the house on the opposite pavement and searched for a spot far enough away not to be recognized if Roehrberg came out but still close enough to monitor movements through the front door.
Some minutes later he saw a tall shape hurry through the front door, slamming it shut behind him as he went. “Roehrberg.” he thought, judging the man from his long stride as he headed off at speed down the hill and in the opposite direction from where Thomas was standing. Thomas locked his bicycle to a street lamp and walked toward the entrance, scanning the building carefully. He walked past the front door and saw to his relief that most of the lights inside were now switched off. He checked that there was no one on the road, walked to the far end of the wall, jumped as high as he could, gripped a spike and fluidly pulled himself up, swinging over and dropping lightly into the garden. Despite Roehrberg’s reputation for efficiency he hadn’t fortified his garden wall as much as Henkel had done but perhaps that meant that the security measures taken at the house itself were that much more dangerous to intruders.
According to the maps and the files there were only two openings on the ground floor where the alarm wasn’t connected, one a tiny bathroom fanlight too small for anyone to get through and the other a barred wooden garden door down to the basement. He hoped that Roehrberg might have left something open, remembering how easy the entrance to Henkel’s house had been, but then realised that even if he had it would be impossible to use it without setting off the alarm. In Henkel’s case the open window had probably been used by the murderer to escape. It was increasingly obvious that Henkel hadn’t committed suicide at all, he thought.
He stayed very close to the garden wall while circling the building, moving to look inside where possible and trying to hear any noise, however small, coming from the interior. Everything was silent. It seemed that Roehrberg had left the house empty. Even for him it was probably embarrassing to confess to a girlfriend that he was off to dinner with a beautiful blonde, business meeting or not.
He found the basement door and examined it closely, finding it as he’d imagined from the plans he’d seen. The door itself was stout and in good condition, held shut by a thick iron bar which was fixed with a ring to the side wall at one end, passed closely across the door and ended in a hinged hasp which passed over the large staple in the door and was secured by a serious looking steel padlock. With the lock opened and removed the bar could be lifted out or up and the door thereby freed but cutting through the padlock was going to be impossible. Shielding his torch he examined and tested the staple and the surrounding wood but could see no weakness. There was none that he could see in the metal bar either but as the light showed up the fixing of the ring in the wall he saw that it was old and that the builder had used concrete rather than lime mortar, thereby damaging the surface of the stone. The wall itself was weathered with softened edges and the concrete was already slightly pulling away; with luck, a few well placed smacks with a stone chisel would complete the task and free the ring.
Although the chisels he'd brought were padded on the handles the noise would still be significant but he realised he had no choice. The small battery operated drill he'd brought might also work but wouldn't really be much quieter and would take several times as long.
He cringed as the sound of chisel on stone rang out absurdly loudly in the still evening. He stopped and listened but there were no footsteps on the pavement, no challenge as to what was going on. In the end it was easy and after only a few blows he freed a lump of stone with the ring and bar still firmly attached. With the lock pushed round the staple there was just enough play at the hasp end to allow him to swing the bar clear of the door and in a moment he clicked the latch and pulled it open with a harsh creak. Again he listened but there were no worrying sounds nearby.
Standing at the top of a narrow staircase Thomas cautiously flashed his torch around, hoping that the report on Roehrberg’s house was accurate. He waited for a few moments but there was no sound of an alarm breaking the stillness and so he pulled the door closed behind him and cautiously walked down and into the large basement room, flashing his torch around as he went.
This was clearly a junk or storage room, with objects of all kinds stacked in corners and piled on top of each other. In the far left corner there was a tall wooden construction housing a collection of bottles. On the right hand side a couple of paintings le
ant against a wall. Further on there were some old cane-bottomed chairs apparently waiting repair but now covered in dust. By the foot of the stairs from the garden were gardening tools. In a far corner there was a female mannequin wearing a battered fedora at a jaunty angle, her right arm angled up and holding a pretend cigar near her mouth.
Thomas moved the torch around a final time before deciding there was nothing of interest. He moved to a door opposite, finding it opened on to a staircase to the house. He climbed carefully, alert to creaks and to any noise from above, opened with infinite slowness the door into the corridor by the kitchen and stood looking for the characteristic red lights of motion sensors. There was nothing that he could see so he moved to the front hall to find and deactivate the alarm system if necessary.
Checking the sheet of the report which showed the system details, he identified and took down from the wall by the front door the painting which concealed the controls. To his surprise it looked as if the system hadn’t been activated and he checked his paper several times to make sure that this puzzling discovery was correct. Possibly Roehrberg felt safe since Bettina was having dinner with him. Indeed, maybe that was one reason he’d invited her out, to avoid her poking her nose around elsewhere. But a lot of other people, including foreign agents and burglars looking for pickings from large houses, could have had an interest in breaking in. Thomas had no time to think the matter through. It was very odd but all that mattered was that Roehrberg had left the system off, whether by mistake or intentionally.
At the end of the front hall, opposite the main entrance, was a wide flight of carpeted stairs curving elegantly round to an upper landing. Roehrberg’s study was through the third door on the right upstairs, the last room on the corridor, according to the maps. Thomas quickly climbed the stairs and walked along the unlit corridor, feeling in his rucksack for the camera as he went. About to enter the study he saw light coming from under the door. He bent to look through the keyhole but seeing nothing straightened, turned the doorknob cautiously and pushed the door open. It squealed slightly. His heart beat fast as the image of Henkel’s body and the blood-stained desk flashed briefly through his mind.
